


Fier

by SLWalker



Series: due South Wizard!Verse [27]
Category: due South
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, Gen, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guy and Mike are on the run, taking shelter with Guy's sire in Montreal.</p>
<p>The Canadian Ministry of Magic has fallen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

These halls are familiar to me. I do not come here often anymore, but when I was a fledgling, I spent much time here.

Beneath the city of my birth, under the feet of the unsuspecting, we hide.

These halls were started a century ago and finished a half a century ago. This city is younger than a number of its inhabitants, and as I walk, I can see and feel the Old World here; the one where many of them migrated from, coming here to Quebec for a new adventure in a new world. The amount of time and investment has given my kind a stronghold, of a sort, and I can think of few safer places for a displaced muggle. Even if he is surrounded by vampires.

Mike has not spoken since the jump. He was here less than a half-day ago; his first visit to this place, his first meeting with my sire. He was in far better spirits then than he is now; irrepressible, even in light of a killing curse that nearly stole his life.

Now he is quiet, though his chin is up and his steps are steady.

I do not break into his silence, and the few others milling around do little more than eye him curiously, before minding their own business. They will not likely bother him. Even though it has been a week since I've fed from him, I have done so often enough to mark him as my own. Not something I feel like telling him right now, admittedly, but it serves to buy him some measure of peace from those who might try to entice him into a tryst.

Mostly. There are some who would try anyway, but they do not seem to be here right now.

My sire is waiting. She is not surprised; across the distance of provinces, she heard my call, and knew that the hastily arranged safe house that would have preserved Cindy Chase's innocence of vampirism would not be necessary.

I kneel, and when her hand rests upon my head, the tension I was barely aware I was carrying seeps out of my shoulders. It is no small comfort, no small gift she gives me; a moment where I am able to let my guard down, to be wholly under her power and feel her love, her warmth through our bond. To feel her pride in me. Her sorrow for Mike. Her strength and age, a silent promise that she will protect me. I could kneel here forever. I won't. But I could, just to feel that serenity and safety.

Mike does not kneel. Just stands behind me to my right side, waiting. There is little else he can do.

"I'm sorry," my sire says to him, as she strokes my hair. The warmth flows through my mind, down my spine, out through my limbs.

"Not your fault, Reinette," Mike answers, and even kneeling here, I smile at how he addresses her as a familiar, instead of a stranger. He sounds tired, though his tone is well-schooled. Polite.

I can feel her gentle amusement at it, and her desire to help. She likes him, just as she liked Myra and Drew. She would do this for me alone, but she likes him. I feel more proud for this fact, and she gives me a mental poke for my pride, teasing me. "You will be safe here," she says aloud, equally schooled and polite. "I have a room set up. Please, feel free to make yourself at home."

"Thank you," he says; his voice is still quiet, and I doubt I will hear it again for quite some time.

My sire releases me with one last caress, and I rise to my feet. "Thank you," I say aloud. Unnecessarily. She knows my gratitude from its source.

"Rest well." She looks between us, offering a small smile, and then gestures to our hall.

I know the way.

 

 

Each of the covens has their own area. Not large, not particularly elaborate. But fine enough. No coven is so large as to need something the size of a mansion underground, particularly as many of those that choose to live together often have mansions above it. This was never really meant as a permanent residence, though it could be; simply a safe place to retreat fully from prying eyes, from the light of the sun. The Elder Council meets down here, when court must be held or laws debated upon. Often, you can find members of different covens mingling at any given time. Meetings are held here between those in some dispute; it is neutral ground, safe ground. Sometimes, parties are thrown here. Sometimes, people just come here for the quiet.

Our area is six rooms in total, with a well-appointed washroom, and a large sitting room. It is clean and comfortable, though not strictly warm; I make a point to take extra blankets from the drawers under the bed. I could sleep in any of the other rooms. But I will not give up my proximity to him.

Mike, as I had ventured, does not speak. Just unslings his pack from his shoulder, setting it in a chair, and then looking around for a moment wearily. I doubt his surroundings matter much to him, at the moment.

I understand all too well; my meeting with my sire has lent me that tiny bit more strength, to go with the sense of peace and safety, but I am exhausted. Starving, as well. I will be able to sleep, even with it itching in my veins, but I will need to hunt immediately upon waking.

I miss Myra. I miss Drew. For so much more than feeding.

"The washroom is through there," I say, quietly, and point. He glances at me, then nods and takes his pack up again. Were it not for the gold band on his finger, a line he will never cross no matter how much I wish for more of him, I would follow. Wash him clean, rinsing away the dirt and sweat and ache; bite into his neck simply to leave my venom in his veins to put him to sleep, to let him feel my shared sorrow and determined affection, even if only briefly. To leave him with something he cannot doubt, a truth to hold onto, when all of his other outside anchors have parted cables.

I busy myself with turning down the covers, rearranging the pillows, laying the extra blankets on his side of the bed. I suppose that I know which side is his is enough. We have shared sleeping space many times, especially more recently. I refuse to feel guilty for it.

By now, Renfield must know who has filled in the gap his transfer has left. Even if no one, least of all the RCMP or the Ministry of Magic, could have guessed it would be a vampire and a muggle Mountie. Myra will tell him, what Mike and I have gotten ourselves into.

I am aching and thinking of them, when he comes back. He looks no less exhausted, even newly scrubbed and smelling like soap far more lavish than either of us is used to. I know his expression well, though; quiet determination, even if it is only determination to hold himself with his shoulders square and his chin up.

I offer the best smile I can and go to wash myself. When I come back, he is curled up under the covers, facing away. Not asleep. I ache to wrap myself around his back, a shield or a comfort, or both. I don't.

I cannot resist reaching out, though, just to smooth a hand across the back of one of his shoulders. So much less than I would give him, if I could.

He doesn't answer. I may still be waiting for it when I fall asleep.

 

 

He has never had nightmares before while sleeping next to me, no matter what fire, or water, or pain is flung his way, missing only by his quick wits and my speed. But he does now.

 

 

When I wake, it feels as though I have barely slept at all. The itch has grown worse; it feels as though it's in my very teeth, radiating out from my core, making every extremity twitch for motion. I must hunt; it is no longer something I can put off. Mike is asleep, though given his breathing, not very deeply; he has not moved all night, still curled up around himself, and I try to slip out of bed as quietly as I can so I might change into street clothes and find someone to feed upon.

He shifts when I move, a nervous twitch, but settles again. I breathe a sigh of relief, silently. His scent is tempting beyond words right now, my own hunger keen as it is, and it will only get worse with a delay.

I feel my sire drowsily brush across my mind. It helps. Normally we are not so intimately connected in the day to day, but now is not normal times and while I reside here, I am more than comforted by her presence. It does not replace the ones I miss, but it helps. Oh, it helps.

I look back at Mike, and even with all of my instincts screaming for me to feed, all I really want in this moment is to press a kiss to his head.

I don't. But I would.

I head out, for the surface, for the night. Pity whatever dark magic sympathizer I might find tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

I am something of a nomad by my nature. Even so, I love Montreal. The flavors of it; some ancient, some new. The architecture, the people. My language. And perhaps the way they stare at me when I give them the anglicized version of my name regardless, butchered years ago by my Drew. He read it upon my dorm mailbox, syllables mangled; instead of Luh-RAWN, I became Lau-RENT. I attempted to correct him for the better part of a day. I tolerated it after. By the end of a few months, I gave up and pronounced it his way. I have never gone back, and now I correct the correct version. It never fails to make me smile internally.

I think about them with every breath tonight, once I am done taking a little more than strictly necessary from the young wizard espousing his political affiliations rather more loudly than decent. About Drew, who found me here in this city, when I was still a young human scrambling to pretend I was born to a higher station than I was. About Myra, unexpected fire and passion and madness in Regina; she likes it here, as well, even if it took her some time to stop bristling about my sire's hold over me. Myra does not like to share with other women. Not even the one who turned me, touched me, perhaps even helped to save me.

Drew disappeared back into the world, as he had when we were younger; a temporary parting, until we meet again. Myra is in Chicago now; I could apparate to her. I won't; I won't risk it. But it is comforting to know I can.

Mike is beneath the streets of Montreal, hidden amongst the vampires. I hope that he is still asleep, I hope that it is peaceful. I don't think either is true.

I take one more look around, and then back at the block of apartment buildings where I had grown up.

I smile.

 

 

My sire has brought food; she has impeccable taste. She takes pleasure in feeding others; when I have brought Myra and Drew here in the past, even Drew could only grudgingly compliment her ability to lay out a decent spread. She has pulled out all of the stops today, perhaps in hopes that food might be a comfort where there is little to be found. It is not an absurd amount of food, but it is enough to feed the three of us with snacks left for later.

I love watching her interact with Mike. She handles his current quiet stoicism with equal measures courtesy and kindness, just as she handled his prior visit with warmth and affection. She does not press upon him to speak and she does not treat him as hapless or helpless, as so many would be tempted to. To her, he and I are barely more than children; mere decades upon this earth, still raw and young. Even so, she gives him every bit of dignity she would a peer, even if I can feel her more maternal instincts when our bond is active.

Now, we are in the sitting room, the fold-out table looking entirely out of place here in these surroundings. The incongruity amuses me as I take a seat.

He looks tired still. But he eats, at least, even if I do not believe he is tasting his food right now. Mechanical, distant.

"The news is grim," she says, speaking aloud for his benefit. "As of two hours ago, Canada's Ministry of Magic has fallen. Minister Charbonneu has been replaced by Bouchard, completing their hold upon it. Our own government has made no statement in support or censure."

I knew this was coming. My dinner had been speaking of it. But hearing her say the words is no less of an impact than it would have been had I remained ignorant.

Mike pauses in chewing on a piece of apple, watching her for a moment, then resumes chewing. Oh, but to be in his mind right now. His expression is clear, calm, but I know that his thoughts are buzzing. He finds this world baffling often, but he is a quick study when he chooses to be. And while I know for a fact politics has little interest to him, he will doubtless arrive to a number of conclusions on his own.

"It was bloodless, but it will not remain so." My sire folds her hands on the table, her own expression thoughtful. When she looks at me, then at Mike, I can see her sympathy. "Roderick Turnbull has been given control of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

Mike shoots a glance at me, and through the icy grip of fear, I nod.

I am not normally so crass, but I think anyway, _Renfield is probably shitting an entire outhouse right now, brick by brick._

"Turnbull's...?"

"Brother," I answer, relieved to hear his voice.

Mike nods, and his eyes narrow slightly as he thinks, looking past the table. "So, what does this mean for what we do?"

"It means it would be very wise for you to remain here," my sire answers, raising her eyebrows. She must know that it is far less than likely Mike would do so for long of his own free will. Run, he was willing enough to do. But hide in safety? No. He has no such self-preservation instincts. There are times I truly wish he did. There are times I am grateful he doesn't. Right now, it is more the former.

"We can't," he says, looking back at her. "If they're going to start rounding up muggle-borns, then the best thing we can do is help get them _out_. Guy said something about safe houses?"

Often, I have wondered if he was paying attention when I tried to explain the political ramifications of what we were mixed up in, broader than just apprehending criminals. I suppose that is quite the answer. I have not kept my fingers to the pulse of those politics very well, particularly as Renfield is the only wizard that I associate with freely, but my history lessons were apparently not in vain.

"First, we would need to ascertain whether the government in the United States is still intact and unbreached," she answers, and I can see she is not wholly pleased with the idea of us heading off into the world again, especially one that became considerably more hostile only two hours ago. "Then, we would need contacts. Given that you are human, and we are vampires, this is not nearly so easy as it would be for a wizard."

"But I do know a wizard. Should I find some way to get him a message..." I cannot entirely believe that I am saying this. It is madness, of a particularly tangled flavor. "Given his... family difficulties right now, he may find himself struggling to gain enough allies to help."

"I will see what I can find." She picks up her napkin and wipes her mouth, then rises to her feet. When she steps past me for the door, she strokes my hair and my mind both; her worry for us is clear. "In the meantime, rest. Rest, eat, recover. If you mean to make yourselves enemies of the magical state even moreso than you already have done, mes amours, you will need it."


	3. Chapter 3

The world is changing rapidly above us, and it seems as though one step forward in any direction may be a step into a trap. Or worse.

It has been a week since we arrived. In that week, much has happened; even what limited information my sire could glean bodes extremely poorly. Not only for us, but for everyone. Mike and I have, indeed, been declared wanted. But that is almost inconsequential, compared to the changes our nation has suffered.

Canada's border is guarded in ways unprecedented. There are wards along it; disapparation jinxes in strategic points, much of the rest alarmed. Muggle-borns are being forced to registration, and tagged, like cattle -- magical traces attached to them, so they cannot easily escape the scrutiny of a government hostile to their very existence. Thus far, there is no word on what they intend to do with the half-bloods, if anything; there are far more half-bloods than easily controlled.

Not for the first time, I am so relieved we got Myra out when we did.

The mechanisms that have now been put into play have been built over the past few years since the stirrings of the trouble began, by those loyal to the dark wizards responsible. As the Ministry's personnel, as the wizarding government was slowly replaced by vote or blackmail or, finally, outright coup, more and more were there to act upon these preparations. We knew it was getting bad. We did not know _how_ bad.

Mike paces. Sleeps poorly. Reads. He does not like reading; he manages only ten minutes at a time before restlessness drives him to pace anew, but then he returns again for more. My sire managed to procure a few books for him, ones that might have some small use to a muggle police officer; non-magical potions, for instance. A guide to magical beasts. A simple guide for spells most wizards learn in school, so he might recognize what is flung in his direction.

All of this is poor substitution for action, for him. He is restless. I ache to soothe it; to keep him here, safe in this halls, where no magic will touch him. I do not sleep well, either; when I wake up, it is the imagined _Kadavra_ I hear.

"The message is sent to your allies in the south. Your safe houses here are set up."

I kneel for her. She looks grim; when she touches my mind, she is worried and nervous. It is a rare thing, that can make my sire nervous. Part of me shudders to consider it. It seems deeper than our parting ways temporarily, but when I gently query her in my mind, she gently refuses to explain. That does not help my anxiety.

 _Je suis fière de toi,_ she whispers down our bond, stroking my hair.

My eyes sting.

It does not stop, not even when Mike and I apparate away.

 

 

There are seven safe houses, across Canada, all close to the border. Seven in all, and from those we will do our best for muggle-born wizards and witches, a society we owe very little to. We are only two men, in the end. Neither of us believe we can single-handedly save everyone. But we will save who we can. I wonder in which way that Renfield's return message will come to us. I wonder how we will determine _who_ is muggle-born, how we will convince them it is safer to trust a vampire and a muggle to get them out of Canada than it is to comply with the Ministry's cruel treatment in hopes compliance buys them mercy.

I wonder about my coven, my sire's nervousness, my missing Myra, my missing Drew. I worry for Mike, still so quiet. I worry for Renfield; if I am in danger doing this, then he is in far more, given his brother.

I hurt. I miss.

As we settle into the cottage -- a wooded cottage owned by one of my sire's human allies -- I cannot find the strength to pace, nor the peace to rest. Outside, dawn is only an hour away; the birds chirp in the late summer air, and the trees rustle. What we plan to do seems impossible. Hopeless, even. I am not one to give up easily, but when I look at the magnitude of the war we face and our part in it, it seems too much. Too large to fight. Not if we mean to live through it.

I understand why some might choose to comply, paralyzed by fear. I will not be one, but oh, I understand.

I hear and feel him well before he steps into my space, and despite how I feel myself, his very awkward pat on my shoulder makes me smile. It is the first thing he has done in a week, since leaving his wife, his career and Nipawin behind that has not been driven by rebellion or restless heartache. A small victory. I shall take it.

"We'll be fine," he says, and he does not have to fake the confidence in his voice. Face him with the loss of home and love, and he trembles. Face him with open or covert war, and he is steel and courage.

Perhaps he can lend some to me.

I reach up and trap his hand under mine. I do not need to look to feel his eyebrow raise. "You should be proud, you have managed to piss off an entire government," I say, not so flippantly as I wish to.

"Maybe by the time I'm done, I'll add a few more," he answers, and the quiet smile I hear in his voice warms me, wrapped around ache.

I release his hand and turn, reaching out to give a brush to his neck, over his pulse; an organically evolved request. I cannot say how much further cheered I am when he rolls his eyes, in put-upon exasperation, but by the time he gives me a grudging nod, I am finally smiling some myself. As though he is doing me a favor, as though we are not facing war, as though I have just asked him to take out the trash or perhaps do the laundry.

I do not think I will ever stop finding him delightful.

When dawn breaks, we are a flowing current of heartache and determination, of his courage and my affection; we are our losses and our good intentions, and we are alive. I still feel him, quiet and calm in sleep, a soothing presence when my own sleep finds me.

There are no nightmares.


End file.
